Read Deer Dancing (Tales of the Reluctant Shaman) Real Story Safe Sex Project Page 1
Deer Dancing (Tales of the Reluctant Shaman)
Real Story Safe Sex Project
Ty Nolan
Copyright 2013 Ty Nolan
Deer Dancing (Tales of the Reluctant Shaman)
Ty Nolan
“Have some potato juice,” Otter said, handing me an old silver thermos.
“What's potato juice?” I took the battered thing and shook it. Liquids sound pretty much alike.
“It's what we Kiowas call vodka, 'cause it's traditionally made from potatoes.”
“Nah,” I said, handing it back. “I don't drink.”
“Wussie-pussy,” he laughed, opening it up and taking a mouthful. His eyes squinted from the sensation and the sharp stink of cheap liquor hit my nose.
“It's not that—I found if I try to drink, dead people start talking to me and that always creeps me out. Scorpio is the one who's supposed to deal with the Dead, not me.” Otter's grandfather is a medicine man, so I didn't have to worry about explaining anything. He nodded and put the top back on his thermos.
“Bummer, bro. That would really freak me out. What do the Dead want to talk about?”
I hesitated. I had been dumped on my Uncle Feeney's pig farm by my family for sort of, kind of abusing the whole “spiritually gifted” thing by seducing a new student. How was I to know what I had done would turn him into a zombie sex slave? Whoops. And such a waste of my time. Turns out he would have wanted to date me anyway. All I really ended up doing was speeding up his Coming Out process. Go me. During my formal initiation the real chatty-cathy Dead was my brother Scorpio, and he kept nagging me to resurrect his ass. Whatever. And I thought I had gotten in trouble for the sex slave stuff...
Aloud I answered, “If they're on this side of the Doorway, they're usually begging you to help them do something. Then there was this real perv one who kept trying to sex up sleepers. My Aunt Pork called him an ‘Incubus wannabe’ and used some Ghost Medicine to get rid of him.” I glanced over at Otter's “potato juice” and added, “I get enough of the Living expecting me to do stuff without the Dead trying to ride my ass.” I shuddered from certain memories and tried to focus on my friend. Otter and I had fooled around some after my first official lover went home to Italy. But then his father got hired for a new job and his family had to move to Portland. We kept in touch and now I was spending a few days with him. He had cut his hair off and looked a little taller since I had last seen him. Life in the Big City.
“Well, I have something fun planned for tonight.”
“What's that?” Otter's eyes had that odd look to them I normally only saw if his pants were off.
“We're going to a Safe-Sex Workshop.”
I frowned. “Really?” My first thought was that he was joking, but he would have immediately followed that with a waggle of his eyebrows and going ‘Ayyyyeeh!’ at the end. “Why the hell do you think I would want to spend three hours to get here and then go to a Safe-Sex thing? A condom and you're done. See--I saved you having to sit through an hour's boring lecture where they probably don't provide coffee and cookies. And I'm pretty sure there would be a shortage of potato juice.” I crossed my arms.
“So, tell me,” he said, reaching to take another swig from the thermos. “Have you ever used a condom when you banged a guy?”
I felt my frown deepen. If I spent more time with Otter I'd probably be all wrinkled before my time.
He laughed and almost choked on his vodka. And No, I had nothing to do with that. I had to think for a moment if I actually knew how to make someone choke. I made a mental note to explore that later. I could see it being a useful skill to have.
“Be honest. I know you didn't use one with me when we were doing it.”
“What—is this an ambush?” I thought for a minute. “So—OK—I've never used one. I mean, I've just banged guys on the rez.”
“And there's like a gate on the road into the rez? Every weekend guys are off to hit out of state tournaments or powwows. We get consultants and sales people coming through the reservation everyday and by the time most of us are ready to start snagging and teepee creeping we're in the closest White town for Middle School and High School. We've never been bottled up and hermetically sealed on our reservations since the 1800s when about the only way you could get out was to join a Wild West Show.”
Most of us had a family history of having a relative back in the day who was paid to chase a fake covered wagon in front of crowds of cheering White people. Sure they were applauding when the arrows set the wagon on fire, but that wasn't their reaction when it used to happen for real. I had a “get out of jail free card” because my family was so far west, by the time White people showed up we met them to start trading. That's why our Wasco relatives were called the Mafia of the Columbia River.
We never killed anybody. Well, no one that didn't deserve to die and Puulllleeezzze—don't bring up that whole Whitman Massacre bit. That was a completely different tribe. My relatives had been in the library. So to speak. But I swear it wasn't us.
I thought about what Otter was saying. He left out the part about how a lot of us go off to visit relatives who are far away. Hell, all my siblings and I went on a vacation to New Orleans to visit one of our uncles. I could have easily had sex with guys there, if I hadn't been squicked out over the thought of being with someone old enough to be my father. I had standards. They might be low, but I actually have some.
“Have you been to one before?” He was getting a goofy smile on his face like Capricorn gets back home when he's sneaking booze. Capricorn was the only one who didn't show any signs of being “spiritually gifted.” Every now and then the gene pool blows up and even in our family you get someone who's just normal. Lucky Capricorn.
“Oh, yeah—I go monthly. Think about it! It's like a safe space dating service where you're surrounded by guys who are already interested in meeting someone who actually wants to wear a glove to share the love! About a third of the men there are like me—repeat customers who are just waiting for the session to end so we can get to know some of the other participants better.”
Good to know. I had never thought about a Safe-Sex Workshop in that way, but it made sense. In high school the Coach who talked about Sex Ed looked nervous and basically treated it like explaining plumbing. His conclusion was everyone should just wait until after they were married, which meant jack-shit to those of us who would have to run off to Washington State or California to get legally married to a same-sex partner.
None of us listening to him were stupid enough to believe that a marriage license would automatically protect you from HIV or anything else. That's because all around us we watched people shagging people they weren't married to. It was like half of married people had signs on their dicks or pussys that said “Under New Management.” Besides, we all knew the Coach was screwing the librarian while his wife looked like she was eleven months pregnant. Adults were such hypocrites. Except for my family, who just didn't have a shit to give.
“And I've really been looking forward to tonight because they have a special guest presenter—he's this famous Native HIV Specialist.”
“That must be a really small population to draw from.”
“In his photos he's always wearing a lot of black leather. He looks like he should be playing in a rock band.
“OK, OK—don't keep trying to sell this. Let's just go.” We stopped by a burger place for dinner and made it to the place a few minutes ahead of time which probably blew our rep for being on “Indian Time,” but you just can't manage to be late every single time. I mean,
I came close, but still—
The building was pretty quiet when we walked in and Otter led me to where I could hear the sound of voices in one of the hallways. The room was arranged with tables and chairs in a semi-circle, facing a big screen. A thirty-something Native guy with really long hair—almost as long as mine—had a single braid that pulled his front hair back into a braid and he left the rest loose. It was an old style way of wearing your hair—one of my uncles always did his hair that way. We're from a chief's family and it's considered “low-class” to just wear your hair loose. We were raised to always keep your hair braided because you were less likely to leave behind a strand of your hair where it could be